


three: in darkness

by wordtheef



Series: thirteen ways of looking at a Lannister [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fucking, Gratuitous Smut, Lust, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, One Shot, Oral Sex, Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Unf, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-08-23 07:17:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20238892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordtheef/pseuds/wordtheef
Summary: “If you really were my whore, everyone would know it.” The implication is obvious.She smiles. “You think you’re that good?”





	three: in darkness

They’re sitting together, working quiet, reading. The candle flickers against the walls and leaves dark streaks of soot where it touchs.

Jaime is staring at her.

She looks back down at her paper. Re-focuses. _It happened then that in the seventeenth year of his reign, ..._

“Do you know what they call you?”

“Call me — what? What who calls me?” As soon as she’s spoken she remembers it. _Whore_, say the faces. _Kingslayer’s whore._

Nevermind that she’s never touched Jaime in lust; nevermind that he’s epically disinterested. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman traveling with a man must be tending to his cock. Yes, indeed.

Jaime smiles. “They don’t know you very well. You, the Maid of Tarth.”

“Mm,” says Brienne, thinking that Jaime doesn’t know her either. She needs more than two hands to count the times she’s gone to some strange pub and found some strange man and —

“— told him that if you were my whore, he would know it. Everyone would know it.” He glances at her and away. “Nevermind. Ignore me.”

There’s a thousand things she could say. Pretend ignorance, pretend innocence, pretend shame or disinterest or _absolutely anything_ other than saying, with the tinest of trembles in her voice: “You think you’re that good?”

“Yeah. I am.”

Brienne wants to squirm against the chair. She resists it. Careful. Careful. “It’s easy to claim that when you’ve taken a vow of chastity.”

“Celibacy.”

“What?”

“Chastity is virginity. Celibacy is not marrying. I never claimed chastity.”

The candle flame licks the wall.

“Neither did I,” says Brienne.

Jaime bends again over the book. “Shame. I’d rather hoped to be your first.”

Brienne had wanted that, too. She shrugs, pretending to pay attention to her work, just like he is. They’re a pair of damn liars. “You took too long. I got tired of waiting.”

“Brienne ...”

“Are you going to make me wait even longer, ser?”

He doesn’t answer and doesn’t answer and doesn’t answer and she can’t risk looking at him, thinking that if she only misunderstood all of this she’ll absolutely _die_

but Jaime leans over

blows out the light

and the room is damply, thickly black.

She stands. “Ser?”

Only the slight _zz-p!_ sound of laces drawn through eyelets, and then something — a tunic? — falls to the floor.

Alright, so they’re doing this.

Brienne has it easier, having two hands, but either Jaime is very practiced or his head-start was more considerable than she expected, because she’s only half undressed when he finds her and touches her

and oh he’s already hardening and he actually _growls_. “Penalty, Tarth. You’re still clothed.”

So this is like — sparring. Practice. Three points and you’re out. “What happens if I lose?”

He laughs.

Her laces are sticking together, of all times for her clothing to disobey — something brushes her nipple, pinches it lightly — moisture and heat streaks over it, oh he’s got it in his _mouth_ and his hand is stroking her other one and

she runs her hand down his chest, finds the nest of hair and his cock in it. It’s thicker now, warmer. She drags her nails over the loose skin. “Shame you only have one hand. I’d like the other one in me while you do that.”

He moves off a bit. “Fuck, Brienne!”

“You stopped. That’s a point.”

He doesn’t reply and the silence is heavy. Dark. If only he hadn’t blown out the light — what must his eyes be like? are his lips wet and red? is his cock red, too?

(this isn’t the time to ask for favors)

He reaches out to her waist at the same moment that she pushes down her trousers, and his hand — clearly expecting fabric — jolts on her skin. He’s unsure.

It doesn’t last long. He stretches out his fingers and murmurs something that ends in _you’re so wet for me _and oh this is better than she’d planned and hoped, he isn’t taking her gently at all; his hand is rough and sure, his fingernails dig as he moves in and out, and she whimpers.

“Already?” The callouses on his thumb drag across her clit, she’s swollen. He kisses her (he had his hand inside before they kissed, how is that possible) and licks into her mouth and she gasps

“Lay down.”

Instead of obeying, she kneels.

She moves slow enough down his body that he knows what’s coming, and that’s intentional: enthusiasm might be all that she has in her favor, here. But. She takes his cock in her hand and draws down the skin a little and licks a broad flat strip over the top while he’s still reacting to her hand around him; a little bit of pressure, a little suction, it’s good and she’s not done but Jaime moves her off him with both his hand and right wrist.

“I told you to get on the floor.”

Jaime’s never spoken like that before — not to her. His voice is gutteral, the laughter gone.

Brienne doesn’t obey. She pulls him down and kisses him hard, feels him leaking wet, his hand groping at her, clumsy.

“Open your damned legs and _lay down.”_

She lays back and he moves on top of her, rubbing his cock along the place she wants it. She’s holding his arm so tight he’ll be bruised tomorrow and she doesn’t care she doesn’t _care_, he’s cruel to make her wait like this and he deserves to be marked everywhere, shamed forever. “Next time I’m leaving the candles lit.”

“_Next time?_ You’re self-assured for a virgin.”

“I told you, I’ve done this before.”

“Penalty again. You shouldn’t fuck anyone but me.” He uses his hand to guide, pushes in just a bit. Withdraws.

She whimpers — can’t help it — he’s such a fucking tease. She wants to say _You’ll need to fuck me every damn night if you expect me to be faithful_ — but he’s moving inside her again, all the way now until there’s no more space and he _moans_ and she’s clenching around him, feeling his cock twitch and his legs trembling against hers and his breath is jagged, uneven, he’s trying to last a while longer

and she remembers suddenly her first lover: a bright-eyed young man with dark hair and a quick smile, he didn’t look at all like Jaime — which was in a way the point.

He barely spoke a word of the common tongue, except for “two Stags one fuck” and “my tongue there?” and the other sort of things that whores learn so easily, but he was surprisingly kind for all that. He didn’t seem disgusted or annoyed by the blood, only fetched her a cloth to clean herself, and when Brienne was overwhelmed and ashamed and cried, he wrapped his arms around her and said soft words in his own language til she calmed.

He still took her money.

Jaime — Jaime has been on the edge since the beginning. He’s hot and thick and filling her past what she thought she could take, past what she thought she wanted, and he wasn’t bigger than anyone else to her eyes

so it must be true what he’s saying, that she’s _so tight, so good for me, Brienne, I didn’t know_

he hits something perfect and his cock _drags _on that spot andoh gods her mind goes blank and everything is stars, bright against the darkness.

He’s fumbling to cover her mouth and Brienne bites down hard on the meat of his thumb. Fuck being quiet, fuck being _respectable_. She isn’t ashamed of him and he’s not ashamed either, he’s still thrusting into her body, erratic strokes, he’s gritting his teeth, coming hard — Brienne pulls him closer, legs around his back. His cock throbs once — twice — again, weaker now.

He slips out.

She misses it.

He rolls off her and she misses that, too — the pressure of him and the smell and the shivering he made — and anyway, she’s not _done_. She reaches for herself (_so wet, so wet for me _he said and he’s right) and it’s only a moment before she’s coming too, finishing what he started. Saying his name.

They’re quiet together a while. Then Jaime laughs. He sounds self-conscious. “I lost track of the score.”

“I won.”

"Rematch,” he says. “I demand a rematch.”

“Tonight,” she says, wishing she could see his face.


End file.
